Fire from the Tongues of Liars
by Sir Reagan Chap
Summary: Námo is getting tired of all the lies spread about him and his supposed cruelty.


The Halls of Mandos were somber, gray, and often very quiet. The spirits of the dead waited there for whatever fate Ilûvatar had in store for them, a fate that not even Manwë understood. Námo did not know what would happen to them, but he always tried to comfort and console them and help them be unafraid of what would become of them. But, for some reason, the spirits feared him. They would not go near his throne, and they would flee when he approached, so Námo was often alone with his thoughts.

Not that Námo disliked introspection and personal contemplation. Being responsible for all the dead of Arda and all the Dooms of the world, there was a lot on his mind that needed sorting out. He often found himself walking along the walls to observe Vairë's tapestries and all the history that they depicted. Much of Arda's history was filled with war, bloodshed, and fire, and the tapestries reflected this. There were also tapestries depicting the good of Arda, such as the Two Lamps, the Two Trees, and the glory of early Númenor. But this was largely offset by the red of blood and fire. Námo knew about all those events long before they ever happened, and he looked into the future and saw more suffering. It pained him to know that it was inevitable and that he could do nothing about it.

One tapestry in particular caught Námo's eye. It depicted the revolt of the Ñoldor, the Kinslaying at Alqualondë, the Oath of Fëanor, and Fëanor's subsequent exile and journey across the sea. There was so much red at the end of that picture, so much fire that burned the Teleri's beautiful ships. Included in the tapestry was Námo himself, depicted pronouncing the Doom of Mandos to the rebelling Ñoldor.

Ever since Námo told the Ñoldor what would happen if their quest persisted, Fëanor and his kin blamed him for their failures. They were utterly convinced that their efforts to retrieve the Silmarils were defeated because Námo had foretold it, and that his prophecies were cruel by his own design. Little did they realize that he simply told of the reality of the world, and he did not control it.

Námo knew why this was so. It was because Fëanor and his kin could not be honest with themselves, and they refused to take responsibility for their actions. They had always told themselves that someone else was to blame for the blood on their hands. They had blamed Námo, among others.

With a cry of rage, Námo ripped the tapestry from the wall and threw it on the floor. He dropped to his knees and held his head in his hands, his breathing becoming ragged and haggard. He had had enough of the Ñoldor spreading lies about his supposedly cruel and vindictive nature, but he didn't know what to do.

"Why did you do that? That's one of my favorites."

Námo turned and saw Vairë standing there next to him.

"They are liars," said Námo. "They think that they can be absolved of their crimes by thinking that it is because I prophecized it. It is a lie, and it burns me, just like they burned the ships."

Vairë knelt beside her husband and put her arms around him. "Don't be too angry. People fear what they do not understand, and they will try to substitute reality with their own. They do not understand the nature of death, and they do not understand who you are. But know the truth. I know who you are. They think that you are an oppressive master of death, but in reality you are not so different from your brother and sister."

"They do not fear Irmo and Nienna," said Námo. "They love them, but they give me only fear and hatred."

"But I love you," said Vairë. "My love for you is greater than the love that all the Children of Ilûvatar have ever felt. Does that not make up for it?"

"Then why do you do this to me? Why do you weave these images of the injustice that these liars inflict upon me?"

"It is my task, just as the judgement of the dead is your task. And I feel exactly the same about it as you. I do not enjoy weaving those images any more than you enjoy looking at them. But my love for you is what keeps me going. The fact that I perform my task alongside you makes it bearable."

Námo's breathing became calmer. "I think that I may have been ungrateful. I have been ungrateful for you, the gift that Eru has given me."

Námo stood up and pulled Vairë to her feet and kissed her on her lips. "I would not take Manwë's place as the King of Arda if it meant being away from you. I love you."

"I love you too," said Vairë. "Now hang that tapestry back up. I don't work endless hours on these things for them to end up lying on the floor."

Námo complied, feeling considerably less infuriated about the events depicted in the tapestry.

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 **Author's note: This fic is a birthday present to dmichelle312, who is a dedicated reviewer of my ongoing story, The Lord of Isengard and the Queen of Doriath. Happy birthday, Michelle. I'm not really an expert on romance, so this might come off as pretty subpar. I like the characters, but I'm just not good at the whole romance shtick.**


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